


Flat White

by Paradigm_F



Series: Recipes for Disaster [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Dark Comedy, Ficlet, Gen, Humor, Rage demon on Earth, Satire, Thedas Character on Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 17:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16815286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradigm_F/pseuds/Paradigm_F
Summary: Displaced by the MCIT who stole its intended prey, a rage demon is transplanted to Earth and is forced to make a living.Spin-off AU from the events that take place in The Reluctant Alchemist universe. Completely and utterly silly. Probably a one-off, but we'll see.





	Flat White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Qophia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qophia/gifts).



> For [Qophia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qophia/pseuds/Qophia), very belatedly (lets call it an early Xmas present)
> 
> Content warning: mild profanity

The door swung open, letting in a gust of icy air. Rage looked up at the meatsack that ambled through, and came to the conclusion that of all the meatsacks it regularly came into contact with during the drudgery of its daily torment, this one was particularly odious.

Oh, most of them were, by and large, awful, but this one truly outdid itself.

It was tall — by comparison, anyway. Telling them apart had been difficult at first — the vaguely star-shaped blobs varied little, and all came in a limited and uninspiring array of colors. They were all more or less the same size except for the wisps of their species, who were absurdly small and, by and large, entirely useless, as far as Rage had been able to determine. It didn’t mind the small ones so much — at least they were capable of some truly impressive displays of fury, but the large blobs insisted on smoothing out any interesting emotion the itty bitty ones might have.

The meatsack bared its teeth and Rage, now much wiser to this ritual than it had been when it had just arrived to this horrid place, bared its teeth back.

Even though the meatsack was familiar, Rage could not tell which moitie of the species it belonged to — then again, Rage never did well with that. It had realized early on that this distinction was somehow important, but since the differences were small and most of the time concealed beyond layers of fiber, it had learned to play it safe and simply ignore them. The language was a pain, but Rage made do by referring to everything it encountered as “they.” There was also something about the difference between features of the world that the locals called “things” and features of the world the locals called “people,” but if there was a subtle distinction between the two, it was lost on Rage entirely. However, Rage was not stupid, and, more importantly, it was very intent on surviving long enough to find a way to return. Its home was not perfect — it was, in fact, very far from perfect — but it was vastly preferable to this awful demesne. At first it had hoped that Nightmare was just fucking around, but no. Even Nightmare couldn’t have come up with this.

“How’s it going?” the meatsack said.

Rage contemplated. It was not going well, but since the question was not in fact a question — this part was confusing too — it said the next thing that was expected from it. It enunciated carefully. “What can I get you?”

Rage did not like the sound its voice made. In fact, it did not like anything about the meatsack it itself occupied. It was small. It required washing, or it would begin to smell. It had too many fibers growing out the top, and these fibers had been long, unmanageable, and useless before Rage cropped them all off in — well, in a rage, it supposed — after they had clogged the drain. It had no claws, it had blunt teeth, and it had a tendency to get cold. Rage realized quickly that the thing did not do well whenever the white stuff the local called “snow” fell from the sky — it began to shiver and shake, and needed to be hustled somewhere where it could maintain its narrow range of acceptable temperatures. It had a whole array of other functions that needed to be constantly attended to — or it became uncomfortable. Early on, Rage had attempted to leave it behind and find a more appropriate container. It was a disaster. All the other containers were sealed tight, and, even when it did manage to find a more suitable candidate — a relatively large one, with pictures on its surface, a whole lot of metal things sticking from its outcrops, and the shards inside it reasonably agreeable to what Rage was most of the time — which was, well, rage, it supposed — it had been an awful experience. The other container turned out to be horribly crammed. Crammed and in disarray. Rage had fled in a state entirely unfamiliar to it. Surely not Fear — Rage didn’t do Fear (well, hadn’t done much with Fear in a long time, anyway, and they hadn't parted on the best of terms). Returning to its own meatsack was almost a relief.

It was, by comparison, roomy.

Oh, there were other indignities. The meatsack sometimes attracted attention. All sorts of attention. There were blobs that wanted to talk to it. There were other blobs, that, for reasons beyond Rage’s ken, insisted on touching it. The meatsacks carried something called “phones” — Rage was a little vague on whether “phones” were “people” or “things” — and sometimes, a meatsack might ask for a “phone number.” Rage, not having a phone itself, had learned that glaring at the offending blob usually did the trick.

After Rage deserted the first location where it had landed — aggrieved by the horrible ruckus that the large metal things emitted as they bore down on it, wailing like Despair and flashing red and blue, it had strategically retreated and hid. It wasn’t very pleased about it, either. Rage did not do strategic retreat.

In any case, it had enough access to its meatsack’s memories to locate where it dwelled. It snuck in — there was another sickly meatsack sleeping there with a small furry thing on its chest — also a meatsack, but of some other variety. Rage had collected something its container’s memories identified as “money” and something else it identified as “documents.” There were emotions associated with these things that were pleasantly close to what Rage was, so it decided that both “documents” and “money” must be important. And then it had departed. It followed the trails of feelings the other meatsacks left around until it found a place that was almost tolerable — it was filled with Boredom, Despair, Irritation, and their lesser cousins — and even a little bit of Rage itself. Rage had found a large metal box to crawl into — after trading some of the flat things called “money” for a single flat thing called “Greyhound Ticket.” It had selected the box based on how much of itself it could sense inside of it. There were orange letters on the front of the box, something that spelled NYC.

It had not been an easy transition.

The insufferable blob in front of Rage fluttered its eyelashes. “A Tall, Half-Caff, Almond milk, Flat White at 120 degrees, please.”

Rage seethed.

The meatsack bared its teeth again. “With caramel drizzle on top.”


End file.
